MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology

by Lawrence Block

  “I’ve been off the grid. Listen, I’m as spooked as you are. I don’t intend to risk my life. But now this feels… personal, even if it’s not.”

  For a moment, Hunter gazed at her with an unreadable expression. Then he raised his glass. “Feisty as ever, Mrs. Dowling. Here’s to the temporary resurrection of Dowling, Dowling, and Dowd.”

  They clinked glasses, and Margie took a long swallow. The whiskey exploded in her belly with a comforting heat that gradually suffused her whole body. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she could feel Larry’s presence in the room. Then the feeling was gone. She let her breath out slowly. “Why did you and Larry fight?”

  Hunter put his glass down and cocked his head. “He never told you?”

  “He said you crossed boundaries you should never have crossed. I—uh—I asked him if he meant you made a pass at him, and he laughed. He said no, you didn’t do that. But he never answered the question, either.”

  “Jesus, I thought you knew.” Hunter took another sip. “I thought…well, I don’t know what I thought, but I guess that’s why I wasn’t all that surprised that Jocelyn came to see you.”

  The hair stood up on the back of Margie’s neck. “Why weren’t you surprised?”

  “Because that’s what we argued about, Margie. Larry had gone to see Jonathon Holcombe. He wanted to sign up for some experimental drug trial. I was trying to talk him out of it.”

  “That’s what he meant by crossing boundaries?”

  Hunter shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “What kind of experimental drug?” Margie put the drink down, then immediately picked it up. This was something completely new to her. Larry had never mentioned seeing Jonathon Holcombe. And it didn’t mean that his wife knew anything about it, of course.

  Hunter finished his drink in one swallow, then poured more.

  Margie’s head was beginning to spin, her heart beginning to pound. Jonathon Holcombe was an endocrinologist, and a researcher. If he treated patients at all, it would be for things like diabetes. Larry, thin and fit, was an unlikely candidate for diabetes. “Hunter?” she prodded.

  “I don’t know what the drug was supposed to do, Margie. All I know was that I told him he should talk to you before he decided to be a human guinea pig.” He met her eyes evenly. “I don’t like secrets, Margie. They only lead to lies.” Then he stood up. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you settled. You look all done in.”

  VI

  Margie followed Hunter to his surprisingly cozy guest room under the attic eaves. Painted a soothing shade between blue and gray, it had its own bathroom, a brass headboard, and a fluffy down comforter. He flipped on the light beside the bed. “Towels are in the bathroom. I think you’ll find everything you need. If you want something, just holler. Here’s the remote.” He reached into the bedside drawer. “I have all the movie channels.”

  “Thanks, Hunter. This is really nice of you.”

  He paused at the doorway. “That’s what friends are for, Margie. Right? Sleep well, and feel free to forage if you get hungry.”

  She listened to his footsteps fade down the steps then sank down on the bed. Hunter had already brought her bag up, and it rested on a luggage rack beneath a row of hooks. Rain tapped on the skylights over her head, and a light breeze ruffled the white curtains at the windows on either end of the room.

  It didn’t seem real that she was here, that the events of the last seven hours had happened, let alone the last seven weeks. From her purse, the buzzing of her phone interrupted her thoughts. Despite Hunter’s advice to lie low, she answered. “Hello?”

  “Margie? It’s Joss.” The other woman’s voice crackled in her ear. The storm must be affecting their connection. “You mentioned going over my husband’s records—the police have his computer, which has the most recent stuff on it. But the older files—the paper files—starting with two years ago, are in a storage facility in New Brunswick. If you wanted to meet me there tomorrow—maybe around ten—we could look for the schedule records. I know they’re there. Somewhere.”

  “Sure,” Margie answered, trying to focus. “Ten in New Brunswick—we could do that. Joss, I was just wondering… did you tell anyone that I was going to help you? You left around 3:30 this afternoon—did you mention it to anyone?”

  “I went straight to my sister’s. I’ve been staying here since… since. But they’re all away. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to all evening, Margie. What’s going on?”

  “When I got home tonight, someone had broken into my house… was still there, in fact. He crashed through a window getting out,” Margie finished through Joss’s gasps.

  “Oh my God. Someone’s trying to scare you off. I know someone’s covering up something, Margie. There’s a reason no one’s listening to me.”

  Margie nodded even though she knew Joss couldn’t see her. “Yeah, I get that. Text me that address in New Brunswick. I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”

  Margie showered and got into bed, her mind churning restlessly from one subject to another. A potential conspiracy. Her husband hiding a secret. Her house violated. And now this.

  VII

  On the way to New Brunswick the next morning, Hunter insisted they stop by the office.

  Margie saw Hunter notice that his name was still on the door. As they stepped inside, she wrinkled her nose. The scent of Larry’s aftershave lingered in the air, almost as if he’d just walked out of the room.

  Even Hunter took a deep sniff. “Smells like Larry in here.”

  “I told you I felt him all around me,” Margie replied. For the first time in weeks, she headed toward Larry’s office, Hunter on her heels. She pushed open the door, reached around for the switch, and turned on the lights.

  As illumination filled the room, she heard Hunter gasp behind her. “My God, Margie, what happened?”

  Margie was too horrified to speak.

  The coffee table drawers were turned upside down on the couch, the couch cushions thrown against the wing chair opposite. The supply closet, Larry’s organizational dream space, was ransacked so thoroughly that paper clips and staples glittered at her feet. The small TV/VCR combination had been smashed. Every book had been pulled off the shelves, every drawer emptied from the desk.

  Margie’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.” Hunter guided her to a chair in her own office as her knees buckled. “Hunter, who would do such a thing?”

  “No idea. You want some water?”

  “No, no, I’m… it’s just… after last night…” She broke off, realizing suddenly that her own office was undisturbed.

  “Of course we should call the police, Margie,” Hunter said, leaning against the frame, arms crossed in his old familiar way, “But maybe we can thrash this out a bit first. You were here yesterday, right?”

  “But I didn’t come back here… into the offices,” Margie said, knotting her hands. “I—I couldn’t bring myself to look in Larry’s office. I stayed up front, with—”

  “So the ransacking could’ve happened any time between now and… when?”

  “Between now and the last time Rosemary was in here. She stopped in every day to check the mail and messages. That’s why I told her to take a vacation. She needed the break.”

  “You’re the one who needs the break, kiddo. Other than the cleaners, who else has a key?”

  Margie stared at Hunter blankly. “I can’t think of anyone other than the landlord.” And then she remembered. “The Taking Care Committee at church has a key.” She sat up straighter. “I’m not sure who actually has it—the pastor was here yesterday, in fact, when I walked in.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s part of the TCC. They help people going through crisis.”

  “What was he doing here?”

  “Watering Larry’s orchids. Everyone knows he loved them.”

  “Ah.” Hunter raised one brow. “So you don’t have any idea who’s been in and out of here for weeks.”

  “I suppose.”
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br />   “Damn.” He ran his fingers through the military bristle on top of his head. “How about the back door?”

  “What back door?”

  “The one in my office? Or what used to be my office?” Hunter rolled his eyes. “That’s what used to make me nuts about Larry—he was so exacting about some things and so devil-may-care about others.”

  “He probably forgot it was there,” Margie said. “I did. Once your personal things were gone, he shut the door and never opened it again. I don’t even think the cleaners go in there.”

  “Let’s go look.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “This time I’ll go first.”

  He led the way past Larry’s door, past the washroom, to the office that used to be his. All the way at the end of the hall, it had the best view of the woods behind the parking lot and the hills beyond. It was obvious Rosemary had decided to use the space to store old files. Cartons were piled on the desk and on the floor in front of the door.

  The cartons beside the door were pushed out in a wedge. On the dark red carpet, a few footprints were obvious in the dust.

  “Someone’s come in—and back out—through this door,” Hunter said.

  “It’s ten after nine,” Margie said. “If we call the police now, we’ll never make our appointment with Joss.”

  “You want to wait until we finish with her?”

  “We can meet her, see how many records there are, and then call the police on the way back.”

  Hunter shrugged. “Works for me. You want to take a look around Larry’s office and see if there’s anything missing?”

  “All right.”

  Margie marched back down the hall. Now prepared for the sight, she paused in the doorway, snapping pictures with her phone. The surface of Larry’s desk, the higher shelves filled with pictures and awards, even the surface of the coffee table and the credenza behind the desk were all undisturbed.

  Margie scanned the room. Soon she realized what was missing entirely from beneath Larry’s desk. The old computer tower, the one Larry kept even though they’d switched to laptops three years ago, was gone. The monitor, keyboard, mouse and laptop docking station were in plain sight on the desk; the printer was on the credenza. The wires dangled in a tangled mess.

  “The computer’s gone,” she said, over her shoulder. “The old tower… the one he was keeping as an insurance policy. It was all hooked up to the rest of the equipment. And now it’s not.”

  Hunter suddenly looked toward the reception area. “Hey, can I help you, sir?”

  To Margie’s surprise, she saw Pastor Dave peering around the front door. “Pastor Dave,” she said, feeling annoyed. “I’m surprised you’re here again.”

  “Oh—oh, Margie,” Pastor Dave replied. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I didn’t see any lights…”

  “That’s because we haven’t turned any on,” said Hunter. “Can we help you?”

  “Oh, oh, sure,” he answered, sounding just as flustered as yesterday. “I’m Pastor Dave… from Margie’s church. I—uh—I was just going to leave the key. Since you don’t need us any more, right? To come and water?” He edged toward the nearest table holding a single key on a small chain.

  As he reached out, Margie noticed that his fingers were wrapped in gauze and he had scratches on his face. A jagged cut was held together with butterfly bandages near his scalp. He looked like he’d been in a bar fight.

  Or jumped through plate glass.

  Before she could say anything, however, Hunter took charge.

  “Pastor,” Hunter said, striding down the hall, “I’m Hunter Dowd, as in the Dowd on the door. Pleasedtameetcha, as they say where I’m from. I was wondering if you could help us out.”

  Pastor Dave glanced from Margie to Hunter and back. “Of—of course. How can I be of service?”

  “You can provide us a list of everyone who’s been in and out of here since you folks took over watering.”

  “A list?” Pastor Dave looked puzzled.

  “Of the Taking Care Committee,” Margie said. “Anyone who’s been here. We’d like to talk to them.”

  “But… but… why?”

  “Mr. Dowling’s office has been ransacked, Pastor, and it looks as if his computer was stolen. Now, given that there’re no signs of forced entry, it appears that the intruder had a key. But don’t worry—if you don’t get it together for us, the police will come asking for it.”

  For Hunter, that was a speech. Pastor Dave’s lip quivered into a tight smile. “I’ll—I’ll get right on it,” he said. “Right on it.”

  “You doing okay, Pastor?” Hunter asked. “You look a little cut up.”

  “Oh—home repairs. Not my strong suit. Mrs. Brush says I should stay off ladders. Fell through a glass window yesterday at the parsonage. Made quite the mess.” With that, he practically fled.

  “Something’s up with him,” said Hunter. “Or is he always like that?”

  Margie nodded. “He’s always like that… only not so cut up.”

  “You think it could’ve been him who was in your place? Then got away through the window?”

  Margie opened her mouth, then shut it. She didn’t think Larry would’ve given him a key to the house, but she hadn’t known Larry had given the church a key to the office. And would a minister do such a thing? Even Pastor Dave, as off-putting as she found him? And what on earth would he want with Larry’s old computer?

  “He is peculiar… but that seems unlikely. You about ready, Hunter?”

  “Just want to use the boys’ room. Be right back.” But instead of shutting the door behind himself, Hunter opened it almost immediately and stuck his head out. “We don’t just have a thief, Margie. We have a thief who uses condoms and leaves them floating in the toilet.” Then he paused. “Or doesn’t, actually, because none of them have been used.”

  VIII

  “Maybe it was the cleaners,” said Margie when they were finally back on the highway. “I doubt it was Rosemary. I mean, I guess it’s possible she got frisky in the office but… I doubt it.”

  Hunter had fished all five unused condoms out and put them in an evidence bag, despite her objections.

  “When was the last time the cleaners were there?” he asked, easing over to the exit lane.

  “Rosemary had them come once after the funeral.” She broke off and exchanged a sardonic smirk with Hunter. “I guess that’s exactly what they did.”

  He made a face. “Awful pun, kiddo, awful pun. But if you can make jokes that bad, I know you’ll be okay. Look. Here we are.”

  Jocelyn didn’t seem surprised to see Margie arrive with someone else; in fact, she seemed grateful. “It might take a while.” She sounded apologetic as she led the way down a long corridor of climate-controlled storage units, then paused in the middle of the row of garage-style doors. “We moved all the paper files over here when we went digital.”

  Joss unlocked the padlock and rolled the door up. A ten-by-twenty foot space, filled with file boxes and arranged in long rows at least six feet high, greeted them.

  “These are the files starting from two years ago. The rest are on the computers from the office that they won’t let me have back.”

  “Holy cow,” muttered Margie, hoping her dismay didn’t show on her face.

  “Interesting,” said Hunter.

  “The schedule calendars were boxed separately… we tried to keep the years with the files roughly together.” Jocelyn pushed the flashlight function on her phone. “Let’s see. Patient files are alphabetical, calendars by year.” She walked up and down the rows, training her flashlight on the yellowing labels. Finally, she beckoned. “Okay… Mr. Dowd? Would you be able to grab that one for me? This one looks like it has the calendars for about four years.” She waved her light around.

  Margie looked at the label. It was clearly marked, “Office Calendars/JAP 9/2009-2/2014.” When Hunter pulled the carton out, she opened it to see a pile of black calendars. “You mind if we take them, Joss?”

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nbsp; “Of course not. If you have any questions about anything, just let me know.”

  “I have a couple questions,” Hunter said, “if you don’t mind, Mrs. Holcombe.” Margie noticed he hadn’t been invited to call her Joss. When Joss nodded, he continued, “Could you tell me what makes you think your husband knew the men?”

  “Those thugs?” Her voice was bitter. “I never said he knew them. I said he wasn’t surprised by them. Not in the way I was. They spoke Spanish mostly, and I was in the next room. So it wasn’t what I could hear them say, it more like… by his tone, I could tell he wasn’t shocked. Why would he agree to give them money? And so much?”

  “Maybe he hoped it would be a tip-off for the bank that something wasn’t right. He must have known that they wouldn’t give you that much cash,” Hunter suggested.

  “He told me to go to different branches until they did.”

  Hunter exchanged glances with Margie. Maybe years ago that strategy would have worked. But it did seem to indicate Jonathon Holcombe was serious about giving his assailants an exorbitant amount of money. “All right, Joss,” she said. “If we have any questions, one of us will call.”

  As they approached the car, Hunter turned to Margie. “You mind driving? A couple things occurred to me. I have some calls I want to make.”

  “Sure,” said Margie. “To who?”

  “I want to see what I can find out about the perps. Let’s see… Danny Divino and Orlando Velasquez. Excuse me a few minutes, will you?” He started to punch a number into his cell phone, then hesitated. “I think we should examine the files at my house. But let’s stop by yours first, okay?”

  By the time they reached Margie’s neighborhood, Hunter’s couple calls had turned into half a dozen, and each one yielded more and more notations in his unintelligible scrawl on the notepad on his lap.

  She turned into her driveway as Hunter pocketed his phone. “Okay, so that was interesting. I found out a lot more than was ever in the papers.” He took a deep breath. “I think there’s a possibility Holcombe was involved in drug dealing. The one guy—Divino—was just one of those small-timers who’ve got so many strikes against them from the beginning that it’s no wonder they end up in jail.